


Date at the Tate

by mag_lex



Series: Commuter!AU [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Commuter!AU, F/F, In which the author knows nothing about art, London as a third character, Mild Smut, One Shot, Remy/Yaz, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:13:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26376328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mag_lex/pseuds/mag_lex
Summary: Yaz doesn't normally get mail, but one day she receives an invitation she'd be a fool to decline.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Series: Commuter!AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1916845
Comments: 28
Kudos: 89





	Date at the Tate

**Author's Note:**

> They're baaaack! I really didn't plan on writing more of these two but since a few people were interested and then I got some random ideas, I figured it'd be rude not to. Needless to say, you'll need to read The End of the Line for this to make sense.
> 
> I know nothing about art but I did have a lot of fun writing this. I've made it E to be on the safe side but it's probably more like an M? Idk. Either way, I hope you enjoy! And gold stars to whoever can spot all the nods to 13's era/the various companions...some are a bit more subtle than others.
> 
> One last thing, if you need a visual reference for Remy's outfit: think Jodie at the Spyfall screening in NYC!

The post falls to the mat with a gentle whump, pursued by the rude snap of the letterbox as it clatters back into place. The noise catches Yaz’s attention as she stirs milk into her coffee and her head turns of its own accord, surprised by the unexpected arrival of mail. She rarely receives it but when she does it’s nearly always junk, council newsletters, or post for tenants who moved out three years ago. From her spot in the kitchen, Yaz can already make out a garishly coloured flyer for the local pizza place but in amongst a smattering of plain, white envelopes, there’s something different. Even from a short distance away, Yaz can see that the item is unique. 

She leaves her mug and picks up the whole pile out of habit, but her attention is already fixed on the outlier. She readily drops the remainder of the post onto the kitchen counter, squinting at the handwriting on the thick paper. She doesn’t recognise it, and she pauses only momentarily to consider whose it might be before carefully easing the flap open. 

Inside is a single sheet of expensive-looking card with her name on it, again, spelled out in full. She’s never received something so beautifully written or presented and she reads it a few times until the contents actually sink in.

Her eye is immediately drawn to the sender and she briefly wonders how they know her address. Then she mentally facepalms when she realises precisely why they know where she lives.

_Yasmin Khan,_

_Would you do me the honour of being my guest on the evening of Saturday, November 20, 2020?_

_I said I’d smuggle you in but this might be a lot more fun because you’ll have to dress to impress.*_

_See you at 7? ish. I’ll do my best. My timekeeping can be a bit hit or miss. But I promise it’ll be a night to remember. And I always keep my promises._

_Remy_

_*That won't take much, you could wear a potato sack and look gorgeous. You also look stunning without clothes but unfortunately clothing is mandatory. For the first part of the evening, anyway._

Yaz laughs at the unconventional use of footnotes, even as her heart rate spikes. She flips the card over and reads the exhibition details on the back but she doesn’t really take them in; in truth, her mind is still lingering on the footnote. _Clothing is mandatory...for the first part of the evening_. 

She forces herself to pay attention. The event Remy has invited her to is a preview of a new installation of some kind, with headline artists Yaz has never heard of, but she doesn’t care in the slightest because Remy has curated it, and Remy would like Yaz to attend. It doesn’t even cross her mind to decline the invitation. She realises she’s actually seen this event advertised on the Tube but it had never occurred to her that Remy would be involved. She feels an odd swell of pride and wonders why. After all, what are they to one another? Acquaintances? Is there a word for someone you see on your commute who you also happened to have a one night stand with? Except Remy’s pushing the boat out, and Yaz is delighted that perhaps that night wasn’t a one-off after all. She hadn’t wanted to push her luck, especially when it seemed like Remy had left the next morning and she’d nearly burst into tears when she’d returned with milk. Ever since, Yaz has tried to keep her cool.

Still, it’s the nicest invitation Yaz has ever received and she’s touched by the effort Remy has gone to. Normally, she’s invited to house parties or engagement parties or, once, a wedding of all things, on Facebook. She also suspects an invitation to the event isn’t strictly necessary, or that if it is, it isn’t delivered on a handwritten piece of luxurious paper. Yaz fingers the edges, imagining Remy doing the same as she slid it into the envelope. 

Yaz flips the card over and reads the footnote again. There’s only one real way she can interpret that, and Yaz feels her cheeks flushing as she reads the words again. 

_You also look stunning without clothes._

If that line had come from anybody else, Yaz might have cringed. Only Remy could get away with being that upfront and pull it off, partly because of the way in which she’d come about that information. After all, not many people knew how Yasmin Khan looked without clothes on. The thought prompts a vivid recollection.

_There’s a hand on her breast and Yaz takes a breath, holds it, while Remy admires her._

_“You’re a work of art.”_

Yaz supposes she can’t really judge Remy for the things she says because what she’d said in return had been so incredibly cheesy that it still haunts her to this day. 

_“Did you want to acquire me?”_

It hadn’t put Remy off, but they’d been so wrapped up in one another that if the world had ended, Yaz thinks they’d have been none the wiser. She falls into pleasant daydreams as she remembers precisely what happened next; she can practically hear the sounds Remy had made as she’d come apart on her fingers but Yaz realises the error in her ways when the memory turns her on. 

Yaz finally surrenders the paper to retrieve her coffee and tries to focus.

What is she even going to wear?

Yaz contemplates what to do and she wonders what to make of it all. It’s a complete surprise to be invited to Remy’s exhibition, but it’s a welcome one because Yaz was starting to get worried that things were going to fizzle out; their interactions ever since that night had been limited to texts and fleeting glimpses on the tube. The invitation goes a long way to explaining why Remy has been so busy. Yaz feels a smile tug at her lips as she inhales the comforting aroma of her coffee. 

Unfortunately, she’s so distracted that when Sonya emerges from her bedroom, she can freely retrieve and inspect the invitation before Yaz can stop her. 

“What’s this?” she mutters, snagging the paper and squinting at the writing. She’s clearly only just woken up, judging by the smudges of eyeliner around her eyes. Her state isn’t surprising given that Yaz had heard her stumble home just before three that morning. Still, for her to be awake before 11 is unusual and it takes Yaz a moment to piece together the fact that her sister now has a very suggestive piece of correspondence in her possession. 

“Oi!” Yaz protests, reaching for the invitation, but Sonya yanks her hand out of reach surprisingly fast. Yaz huffs as she abandons her attempt to get it back. She doesn’t want to risk ripping it, after all. 

“Be careful,” she says instead, feeling her stomach twist into knots as she watches Sonya read the incriminating message. 

Her jaw has dropped by the end of it. 

“Yaz...who’s this? Why have I never heard of Remy before?”

Yaz groans. 

“It's a long story.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sonya points out, “other than back to bed. So, come on. Who’s Remy, and have I met him?”

Yaz laughs despite herself. Her sister is boy crazy. 

“You’ve not met Remy, no, because I only really met her a couple of weeks ago.”

Sonya’s eyebrows shoot skywards.

“You only met... _her._..a couple of weeks ago, but she knows how you look naked?”

Yaz has to give her sister credit where it’s due. She’s taken things in her stride despite the fact she’s clearly hungover, and she’s gotten caught up on the more pertinent point, rather than query the gender of the author. Her face looks scandalised but in an impressed way, and Yaz feels a swell of pride for the second time that morning. The fact she can catch her sister so off-guard is a welcome turn of events. 

“I told you, it’s a long story.”

Sonya squints at her critically and Yaz struggles to stop herself from folding her arms defensively. The reason for the scrutiny is made obvious when Sonya asks her next question, and Yaz is relieved she’s switched topics.

“What are you going to wear?”

“A dress?” Yaz shrugs, although she doesn’t own that many. “I dunno. I don’t really know if I’ve got anything nice enough,” she admits. 

Suddenly, Yaz realises that she really does want to impress Remy. If this is her next best chance to make an impression, she wants to make sure it lasts. She’s certain she put her foot in it last time, and now she has the chance to do things right. In a strange way, the pressure is off - because they’ve already slept together - but it’s also on even more than before, because what if they can’t recreate what’s already happened? What if that insane chemistry was just a fluke? 

Yaz hopes that isn’t the case but it’s a distinct possibility that she could disappoint Remy. After all, that one night had been out of this world, a truly unexpected event resulting from a confluence of factors outside of their control that had led them both to that particular point in space and time. How on earth can they replicate that? There’s only one way to find out. Yaz easily tallies up the days: seven, until she sees Remy again. Until she finds out if they can pick up where they left off.

Sonya ponders it, oblivious to Yaz’s chaotic train of thought. 

“I don’t think I do, either.” She laughs at her own bluntness. “You know what we need to do?”

“What?” Yaz is already dreading the answer. Whenever her sister suggests they do something together, it normally ends in bickering and stress.

“You and I need to go shopping.”

Yaz groans. She knows it was probably inevitable but it’s her least favourite thing to do on a Saturday, when the shops are busy, and especially with her sister, who seems to have endless amounts of stamina when it comes to perusing clothes but none when it comes to anything else.

“Now?”

“Yep. You can buy me breakfast on the way.”

Yaz rolls her eyes but she’s relieved her sister is there to help. She could do with some moral support because all of a sudden, she feels very out of her depth.

“It’ll be lunch at this rate. Go shower and I’ll get ready. Go on, and give me that back,” she shoos Sonya away, retrieving the precious paper at last. She relaxes, relieved that her sister is at least stopping with the third degree and that she has Remy’s invitation back in her possession.

"Alright, alright. One thing before I go: was she any good?"

Yaz almost spits out her coffee but she can tell from the look on Sonya’s face that she’s only trying to wind her up.

"Sonya!"

They never talk about sex. Yaz wonders if it's because she's a bit of a prude but now she wonders if it's because she doesn't have it very often. She can't remember the last time she dated someone she actually likes. And she likes Remy. A lot.

"Come on,” Sonya laughs, and Yaz feels like they’re actually bonding for the first time in ages. “Take my mind off this hangover."

Yaz thinks for a moment. 

“Let’s just say it’s a good thing you weren’t here.”

Success: Sonya pulls a face that lets Yaz know she’s regained the upper hand. 

“Will that stop you asking inappropriate questions?” Yaz laughs in victory and Sonya sighs heavily as she retreats without another word.

* * *

Yaz hadn’t heard of a maxi dress until she’d spent far too long trying them on in Selfridge’s that afternoon. In fact, she hadn’t ever been to Selfridges for more than a passing glance before that day either, but Sonya had insisted they up ‘their’ budget (Yaz tries not to think about how much she spent on a single piece of material) and the dress she is now wearing had cost half of her disposable income for the month. 

It felt completely frivolous but exciting to spend money on an indulgence like this and although Yaz knows she can’t make a habit of it, the cut of the fabric imbues her with a sense of confidence that is bolstered only by her sister’s reaction when she sees her in it on the night of the big event.

“Can I borrow that after?” Sonya asks, her eyes wide. Yaz had had the same reaction when she first saw herself in the mirror. She’s never worn a v-neck this low but she looks good and she shoves any self-consciousness to one side. She wants to get Remy’s attention, and this dress should certainly help her achieve that goal.

“Fat chance,” Yaz retorts. She’s not certain when - or if - she’ll ever get the chance to wear this dress again; all she hopes is that she’s chosen wisely and that Remy will like it. She can’t help but wonder what Remy will be wearing and realises she doesn’t have a clue. Her dress sense is a little unusual, but Yaz can’t wait to find out. 

“Don’t stay out too late,” Sonya jokes. “If you’re coming back here at all, that is.”

Automatically, Yaz almost replies that of course she’ll be coming home; but then it hits her that she might not be. She kind of hopes not. Remy’s invitation had suggested their evening might end along similar lines to the first one they’d spent together.

“I- yeah. Whatever,” she mutters, clutching the soft shawl around her shoulders to cover up her bare shoulders. She needs to get going and she ignores Sonya’s snarky comment about the potential for a cold walk of shame as she gathers her bag, slinging it over her shoulder and resisting the urge to flip her sister off as she heads out the door. She’s dressed to impress, and she needs to adopt the attitude to match. 

Her confidence takes a dive when she arrives at the gallery. She hasn’t been near this building in months and it’s far larger and, frankly, more phallic than she remembers, with a chimney stretching dramatically upwards. Yaz cranes her neck and gazes skywards. She recalls that it was once a power station, which doesn’t seem feasible given how close it is to St Paul’s cathedral; she can’t picture how a power station in central London might look and she's glad it serves a more interesting purpose now. London is always evolving and Yaz is just one of millions of moving parts that move it forwards. The scale of this particular building makes her feel especially small.

It’s late enough and cold enough that there aren’t many people lingering by the river, apart from a foolhardy busker strumming his guitar; there is, however, a group of people dressed in suits and evening dresses swarming by the doors at the front of the building and Yaz is relieved she opted for the nicest dress she could afford, because the moment she steps inside - stopping only briefly to check her name off the guest list - she feels out of her depth. 

Yaz thinks of the handwritten invitation in her bag - she hadn't needed it to get in (thankfully) but she brought it just in case they didn't believe her - and she struggles to put it into context as she enters the large, echoing turbine hall. There must be hundreds of people here, she estimates; why hadn’t she thought to suggest she and Remy meet at a particular point? Even the timing had been approximate and Yaz glances at her watch. It’s just shy of 7pm but she suspects Remy will be true to her word: that is, late. Remy had re-iterated this point when Yaz had RSVP'd via text, as Yaz reminds herself when she pulls up the message thread. Nope, no further detail, just several enthusiastic emojis. 

Yaz places her phone back in her bag and tries to remain calm as she looks around the hectic space. The woman in charge of the guest list - a leggy Scottish redhead - had enthusiastically informed Yaz that she was to make her way upstairs for the exhibition, but Yaz takes her time as she tries to adjust to her new environment. She rarely visits the gallery as it is, never mind during a closed event full of artistic types who clearly know one another, judging by the energetic conversations going on around her. Networking is not something that Yaz particularly wants - or needs - to do and she briefly panics that she’s let herself in for an uncomfortable evening. After all, she’s essentially here on her own and presumably Remy is going to be busy, since she organised the exhibition to begin with.

But there’s no sign of her as Yaz keeps watching the room and she finally admits defeat, gathering her shawl close as she heads for the escalators. Perhaps she’ll get a better view from higher up, she reasons, although the moment she steps onto the first floor she’s practically swept into a small crowd of people who are heading for the exhibition. Rather than admit she’s not actually there for the exhibition, Yaz lets herself be carried along and she separates from them the moment they’re inside. It’s quieter in here, darker, thankfully, although Yaz realises it’ll be harder to find Remy in the gloom; it’s like a maze, with various sculptures and artworks dotted about the space, forming a spotlit obstacle course. The space is also a lot warmer than the hall below and Yaz feels comfortable enough to finally remove her shawl and squeeze it into her bag. 

There’s a video playing on one wall, something visually soothing: a young man talking with his grandmother, according to the caption, in her kitchen in Sheffield as they reminisce about the artist’s teenage years. Yaz is quite content to watch it, although she’s not entirely sure what she’s actually watching or precisely how it constitutes art; still, it’s a little easier to wrap her head around than some of the sculptures she’s clapped eyes on. 

_“Ryan Sinclair, don’t you dare!” I remember that like it was yesterday. You never did get it back, either._

The woman on screen laughs heartily as she recalls telling the young man off but for what, Yaz is unsure. All she knows is that the woman has a presence that she finds comforting, like she’s somehow met her before. An old friend. She’s sufficiently distracted that she doesn’t notice someone approaching her.

“She never forgave me for chucking that bike off a cliff.”

A voice to her right stirs Yaz from her thoughts and she blinks at the lad next to her. He’s not dressed anywhere near as smartly as any of the other attendees and Yaz realises that’s because he’s one of the artists. He probably doesn’t need to bother. 

“I take it that makes you Ryan Sinclair?” Yaz asks, extending her hand as she recalls the name on the caption. She can be sociable, she knows that much. If Ryan is offended that she doesn’t know who he is, he doesn’t let on. 

“That does,” he smiles. It’s a nice smile, and Yaz is relieved that at least she’s found someone friendly to talk to. Although going by the quick once-over that Ryan gives her outfit, she wonders if he’s going to try hitting on her. She’s not used to the attention and it’s flattering, but she hadn’t factored that into her evening in the slightest. She thinks Ryan is more her sister’s cup of tea, anyway, and wonders how she’s going to extricate herself to find Remy.

As if she’d been summoned, another voice drifts up behind them only moments later, and Yaz turns in surprise the instant she hears it.

“I see you two have met,” Remy comments, and Yaz can’t stop the grin that spreads across her face when she finally sees her. Ryan is instantly forgotten.

She stands awkwardly, uncertain how to greet Remy now that she's caught her by surprise. It’s the first time they’ve been this close since they’d kissed goodbye at her front door and Yaz is almost overwhelmed by indecision, not helped by the outfit Remy is wearing: a tailored blue suit imprinted with a white coat of arms, a striking look that Remy pulls off effortlessly. It’s not what Yaz had expected at all but she very much appreciates the effort Remy has gone to. A plain white shirt is done up to her neck and although it shows little of her figure, Yaz can’t help herself as she lets her eyes trace the cut of the fabric, how the suit flares around her wrists and how her shirt tightens at the waistband of her trousers, the glimpse of white cotton she can see underneath the bottom edge of her waistcoat. Yaz’s eyes linger on the buttons, and the way the clothes hug Remy’s torso. She’s impeccably dressed and Yaz finds that her mouth has gone completely dry. 

“Only just,” Ryan protests, clearly sensing he’s about to be deterred from further conversation. Remy has barely said anything but Yaz can already feel a subtle shift in the atmosphere. Remy possesses a power, she thinks, a presence that both she and Ryan have picked up on instantly. The background chatter fades away to nothing.

“I’m sure there’ll be time to catch up later,” Remy replies, resolving Yaz’s internal dilemma by sidling in between her and Ryan to wrap a bold hand around her waist. Once again, Yaz wonders if she’d let anyone but Remy get away with that; as it stands, the possessive gesture sends her heart racing as she feels Remy pressed up against her. Thankfully, Ryan takes the hint and Remy smirks as he departs empty-handed. 

“Artists these days,” she murmurs, as if she isn't one herself. Yaz can tell that Remy is the kind of person who thinks the rules don't apply to them but she pulls it off in a way that's ridiculously attractive rather than downright arrogant. She leans in just long enough to place a kiss against Yaz’s flushed cheek and then she’s gone, and Yaz is reeling once more at the sudden absence of contact. She’s going to have to pull herself together if she’s going to get out of this evening in one piece and, not for the first time, she feels out of her depth. But things are exhilarating with Remy here. The night is still young. 

Remy has just enough time to shove her hands in her pockets, adding to her raffish aura, before someone new is trying to get her attention. The distraction in question is so short that Yaz doesn’t see her at first, but Remy turns to reveal a petite woman in a dress and leather jacket combo that Yaz herself wishes she was wearing. Her own dress is starting to get a little uncomfortable, although she doesn’t seem to notice when Remy’s eyes are on her. 

“Excuse me, I was told I’d find you here. Remy?” The woman sticks out her hand. She’s ridiculously pretty, even more so when she smiles, and Yaz wishes she’d go away. “The name’s Clara. Clara Oswald?”

Yaz tries not to shoot daggers at the woman who’s interrupted them just as they found one another. It looks like Clara is going nowhere fast and judging by the press pass around her neck and the look of faint acknowledgement that crosses Remy’s features, Yaz is on the back foot once again. 

Remy turns to look at her and Yaz knows she’s about to be disappointed, gauging by the apologetic glance she shoots her. 

“Interview time,” she grimaces, her back to Clara. “I’ll find you afterwards. I promise. I’ll make it up to you! Go and have a nose around and I’ll be quick.”

“Trust me, I won’t be going far.” Yaz pastes on a smile. She’s been patient this long; what difference will another half hour make? 

Except Remy is gone for the best part of an hour. Yaz makes conversation with more people than she planned to, aided in part by none other than Ryan Sinclair making a reappearance once the coast is clear. Yaz tries not to roll her eyes because at least spending time with someone makes the time pass quicker. It also means that she doesn’t have to offer up her opinion on the art when they’re pushed and pulled into different groups of people; they’re too busy fawning over Ryan, who’s apparently the golden boy of the hour. Begrudgingly, Yaz realises that he’s actually not all that bad, especially once he tones down the flirting. 

She glimpses Remy a couple of times, but she’s swept up into a conversation that Yaz overhears snippets of and decides she’d rather avoid. Who are these people? She never encounters them normally. This feels like a glimpse into a world very different from her own, another level of London that she’s not normally privileged enough to see. If she could call it a privilege, that is. Yaz wrinkles her nose at a tray of weird-looking hors d'œuvres that passes by. 

“Not my cup of tea either,” the waiter winks, and Yaz grins when she hears his cheerful accent. “You look like you could do with a cuppa, though.”

He pauses briefly and Yaz indulges in some conversation that’s more her speed. 

“It’s at times like these I wish I drank,” she admits, shifting on her heels. She hears a sudden burst of laughter and looks across the room to see that Remy is the one causing it. She wonders what they’re all laughing at so enthusiastically. It’s hard not to feel left out.

“Ah. What’s your poison? Give me a mo’ and I’ll be right back.”

Yaz hesitates because she really doesn’t want to put him out, but asks for a lemonade when the waiter insists. 

“Got some nibbles out back if you fancy ‘em. No cheese and pickle sandwiches, mind. A lot of sushi.”

The waiter pulls a silly face at the food on offer and Yaz finds herself laughing. It helps to know she’s not the only one who finds this environment a bit stuffy.

When the waiter returns a few minutes later with an ice-cold lemonade, they strike up conversation until he’s finally called away by a smarmy looking man in a smoking jacket, who berates him for lingering. Yaz dislikes him immediately. The man's hair is slicked back and his beard hides a weak chin; his expression is stormy to say the least and Yaz opts to put some distance between them, but even then she swears she can feel his eyes on her as she moves away. To her relief, Remy finds her only moments later, and she forgets all about the momentary discomfort in her presence. 

“Heya, Yaz. You alright?” Remy asks, cheeks flushed and smile wide. Her suit is still immaculate but her hair has started to develop a life of its own and Yaz resists the urge to smooth it down. 

“Sorry I’m so late, there's never enough time and I'm always running out of it,” Remy apologises, briefly pulling out and looking at her pocket watch. _Of course she has a pocket watch_. Yaz catches a glimpse of the Roman numerals spiralling around the circumference; the gears that make up the inner workings move delicately. It’s a beautiful piece of engineering and she’s oddly sad when Remy closes it again. But now Remy’s full attention is fixed on her, time forgotten.

“Yeah, I’m alright. Bit hot though,” Yaz comments lamely, realising that she really is quite flushed, both from the undivided attention and the stifling atmosphere. She fans her face without thinking, then realises she sounds like she’s complaining. “Good show though,” she enthuses, suddenly awkward about finding the right thing to say. She rarely goes to these things, never mind provides direct feedback to the curator.

“Yeah?” Remy grins cheekily. “It’s a lot, isn’t it. To be honest, I think I’ve seen enough. And I could probably talk about it all in my sleep by this point. Let’s get some air.”

Yaz realises that Remy is once again leading proceedings but she doesn’t mind; she’s keen for some fresh air and she’s relieved that the balcony outside is empty, no doubt due to the bitter chill. It awakens her senses almost immediately, and once the door closes behind them they are left only to the noise of people walking along the South Bank and to the random boats puttering up and down the Thames, lights glinting in the dark. Yaz squints as she looks down to the left, but she can’t quite make out her office building. 

“That’s better,” Remy sighs, eyes fixed on the river only briefly before she turns her attention to Yaz. “Sorry about that. The Guardian is the only newspaper I’ll willingly grant an interview to.”

“I get that,” Yaz agrees. She scrambles for something sensible to say, recalling that she had this problem on the Tube that first night; she feels a little inadequate in Remy’s presence, but the other woman seems to sense that and puts her at ease in a way that seems effortless but that Yaz is certain is not. 

“I really like your dress,” she grins, hands shoved in her pockets again. “Not only did you follow the ‘dress to impress’ suggestion, you surpassed it by a mile.”

“I’m glad I did, though, because this…” Yaz says, tracing the lapel of Remy’s suit jacket with her finger, “is something else.”

“You like?” Remy smiles, but the predatory look in her eye suggests she knows the answer already. 

“You could say that,” Yaz replies levelly. She gives herself a mental pat on the back. “But there’s one thing that’s been bothering me.”

That catches Remy out. “Oh?”

“Where’s the rainbow? Everything I’ve ever seen you wear has had one.” Yaz wonders if she’s being overfamiliar but then Remy raises a conspiratorial eyebrow and opens her jacket just enough for Yaz to see a stripe of colour inside. 

She must have had the suit tailored, Yaz realises. But that thought is pushed to one side when she sees just how well Remy’s waistcoat fits and she shivers slightly as an abrupt wind blows across the exposed space. 

Remy removes her jacket without hesitation, ignoring Yaz’s protests as she drapes it over her shoulders. The move brings their faces into close proximity and Yaz holds her breath as she feels the material settle. She has a shawl and she was about to say as much, but this option is much warmer and as an added bonus, it smells of Remy.

“I’m a little cooler than most, so don’t worry,” Remy says. 

“Alright. If you’re sure,” Yaz accedes. Secretly, she’s delighted. The silk inside feels warm and she really was cold. A movement behind Remy’s shoulder catches her eye and she frowns as she sees the smarmy man in the smoking jacket again watching them from behind the glass doors. 

“Do you know him?” she asks, gesturing to the doors. Remy turns and sighs when she catches sight of him. He doesn’t seem bothered to have been caught spying; instead, he wriggles his fingers in the approximation of a camp wave and slinks away. 

“Unfortunately, yes. He works for a gallery near Bond Street.” 

The location tells Yaz everything she needs to know. She sometimes likes to go window shopping in Bond Street because she knows she’ll never be able to afford anything there. Remy confirms her suspicions.

“He's in it for the money but unfortunately I have to deal with him quite a lot of the time. He's the agent of no fewer than…” Remy makes a show of counting them off on her fingers, “thirteen of the artists here tonight. Thinks he’s some kind of puppet master, collecting all the up-and-coming artists across the city. One day I’ll shake him, though, but until I leave London that isn’t going to happen. Even then the art world is pretty small.”

“So these people here, you see them a lot?” Although Yaz had watched Remy interact with the people inside, she seems different when she’s on her own. Like she’s been putting on a show, which, Yaz suspects, she has to. It’s her job. 

“I do,” Remy says, her tone neutral. Yaz decides not to question her further but she wonders if she’s hit on something. She recalls what Remy had told her on the Tube.

_Late night exhibition. Had to network. Which is fine, but sometimes I really just want to get away from it all. Have a cuppa and stick a film on. Or talk to someone a bit different._

“Wanna see something fun?”

Remy’s sudden glee is almost childlike and it pulls Yaz from her thoughts. It isn’t quite what she was expecting but she nods, taken by Remy’s burst of enthusiasm. It’s infectious.

They walk back through the doors and into the hubbub but Remy moves them swiftly to the exit, telling the security man on the door that she’ll be back. 

“I won’t,” she admits to Yaz once they’re out of earshot. “If they really need me they can send a carrier pigeon.”

Yaz giggles as she follows Remy up a flight of stairs and down an empty hall. It feels like they’re bunking off and she’s not sure who’s getting more enjoyment out of it. 

“Aha...this is the one,” Remy murmurs, easing open a nondescript fire door at the end of the hall. It’s pitch black inside and she fumbles for a minute, cursing as she trips over what looks like a curtain. It’s like they’ve snuck behind the scenes and Yaz realises they actually have once she steps in, guided by a soft hand wrapped around her own. 

“Here we go,” Remy murmurs, although she doesn’t really need to keep her voice to a quiet murmur; they have the place to themselves. The lights are on low and Yaz realises the room they’re in is tiny compared to the one they just left. It’s so quiet that it feels almost like a church and Yaz soaks up the peaceful atmosphere as her eyes rove around the room, taking in the canvases. 

She’s been here before, she recalls, but the last time had been several years ago, when she’d first come to London and had actually bothered to visit all of the free attractions she could manage. The novelty had worn off quickly, especially when there were tourists everywhere, making it nearly impossible to actually see the art. The art itself had gone over her head: block colours that didn’t really stir her imagination for long enough that she lingered. 

Now, however, she has her own private viewing with someone who knows a thing or two about what they’re looking at. Yaz panics briefly, wondering if she’ll have to say something clever. What if Remy thinks she’s dull or boring? She just works in an office and knows nothing about art. 

“You see this one here? Those greys were specifically chosen…”

Yaz tunes out. She isn’t that fussed about the art but especially not when Remy’s face lights up the way it’s doing now. She is far more interesting to look at.

“...and look at this, the overlapping colours here and here…”

Yaz knows she’s staring but she doesn’t care. Something has come over Remy’s face and it’s completely captivated Yasmin Khan. Remy’s hands gesticulate even more energetically as she conveys her point, really getting into the swing of things. She hadn’t been like this when Yaz had seen her networking, even though she’d been perfectly able to mingle and socialise. Yaz muses that Remy’s true love must surely be the art itself, rather than everything on the periphery.

“It’s mostly considered to be abstract impressionism but I’m not sure I subscribe to that definition,” Remy adds, and Yaz has no idea what she’s on about but when her mouth forms those words, Yaz wants to kiss it. She has to stop herself short, though; Remy hasn’t quite finished, but Yaz is a willing audience, soaking up every word even if she’s not really registering them. 

It’s only when Remy finally draws to a close after their impromptu tour that she finally turns her keen eye on Yaz, buzzing but more relaxed than she had been earlier.

“I love it. Conceptually...and actually.”

She grins, her parting shot, and Yaz can’t take it anymore. She takes Remy’s face in her hands and kisses her soundly. 

She pulls away just enough to see the dazed expression on Remy’s face and she kisses her again, soft and gentle and slow. For the first time that evening, Remy is lost for words, and Yaz bites her lip as she runs her thumb over Remy’s lower one, smudging the lipstick she’s left there. She’d forgotten she was wearing it. 

“Normally when I talk about art it can be a bit of a turn-off,” Remy finally says, eyes fixed on Yaz’s face in wonder.

Yaz can’t imagine how anyone could find that kind of passion a turn-off.

“They're missing out,” she murmurs, kissing Remy again. A polite hand cups her elbow as she opens her mouth and teases Remy’s tongue with her own. It was possibly a bit of a mistake because the move makes Remy inhale sharply through her nose, and then she’s kissing Yaz back with even more fervour than before. 

A rude buzzing by Yaz’s side startles her enough to separate. It tickles her ribs and she's so confused that she's glad Remy cottons on to her discomfort.

“Ah. Erm. That’ll be my phone,” Remy mutters. “Sorry about that.”

It's as if they're never meant to get a moment alone. Yaz bites the inside of her cheek to hide her mounting impatience. It's not Remy's fault, after all.

Remy flashes Yaz what seems to be her trademark cheeky grin as she slips her hand inside her jacket, but Yaz is disappointed when she deliberately tries to avoid touching her. Remy has been more reluctant to initiate things than Yaz expected and she starts to wonder if she’s misread things a little. Surely not? The invitation had been sufficiently explicit that she’d actually bought new underwear but Yaz senses that the various stresses of the evening are at risk of derailing their plans. Just as external forces had brought them together, she wonders if they might force them apart. 

Remy unlocks her phone to see the missed call. 

“Nothing that can’t wait,” Remys says, putting the phone on silent and shoving it in her trouser pocket. 

“I don’t want you getting in trouble,” Yaz frowns. She’s not complaining - the opposite, in fact, she’s incredibly flattered that on this night of all nights, Remy is giving her her undivided attention. But she really doesn’t want her to regret the decision, even if she selfishly wants Remy all to herself.

Remy chews on her lip for a second. “Ok. Can I leave him a message? Then I’m all yours.”

Yaz nods - in what context Remy is all hers? She wills herself not to get her hopes up but it's exactly what she'd hoped to hear - and tries to stop listening in to the voice message Remy leaves but it’s impossible when there are only two of them in a tiny room, even when Yaz’s back is turned to give her some privacy. At one point Remy metaphorically puts her foot down in a show of discipline that turns Yaz on even more. She's glad she's not on the receiving end of that particular message, even if Remy is still polite and professional, and it's only when she ends the message that Yaz realises she is probably talking to the Bond Street agent. 

Then she sees how Remy is holding the phone - horizontally, with the speaker turned to her mouth, her fingers splayed underneath it. It’s a complete contrast to the message she’s just left and at odds with how suavely she’s carried herself for most of the evening. Remy is such a contradictory jumble of things that she is keeping Yaz on her toes at every turn. Yaz wonders if she’ll ever fully get to grips with Remy because she keeps on surprising her, but that might not be a bad thing. Remy is incredibly different to anybody she’s ever met and Yaz can’t get enough.

“Done. He's got another thing coming when he listens to that. Trying to ruin my evening. No chance. Come on.”

Yaz is happy to follow Remy’s lead when she takes her hand again and guides Yaz out of the room and to her office a short walk away. 

It’s the same view they’d seen before but now there are more people out on the balcony below them, champagne glasses in hand. No doubt the alcohol is keeping them warm. The noise is muffled by the glass until Remy opens a window, and the motion draws Yaz’s eye to St Paul’s, sitting grandly across the water like a silent spectator. 

Behind her, Remy opens a cupboard and retrieves a half-finished bottle of whiskey. She leaves it on the desk as she rolls up her sleeves and Yaz stops herself from staring by looking around the room, instead. Remy’s desk is covered in paperwork but also small figurines, most of which are half-finished. 

“Did you make these?” she asks, genuinely interested. They’re all figures of people, mainly women, in various poses, and although they’re not complete, they are utterly charming. “You make art here, too? Not just acquire it?”

“Mm. Every now and again. Work kind of gets in the way,” Remy sighs. “But I love to sculpt, even if they’re only miniatures. I get some great inspiration from the people outside.”

Yaz lets her eyes linger on Remy’s forearms and hands. She had noticed them before but now she pays particular attention to the shape of them. She knows from first-hand experience that Remy is dextrous in bed; Yaz can now picture her at work, sitting at this very desk with London outside of her window, crafting replicas of the people outside. She wonders if Remy might have sculpted her, had she ever walked past at the right moment.

The thought makes her warm and she shrugs off Remy’s jacket, draping it over the back of her desk chair. 

“Want some?” Remy asks as she uncorks the bottle with a squeak. But before Yaz can respond, she corrects herself. “Oh, wait. You don't drink do you?”

Yaz shakes her head, touched that she remembered that single passing mention. 

“I didn’t think that one through. I don’t think I have anything up here for you,” Remy frowns, and Yaz can tell she’s overthinking things. She realises that an evening such as this must be stressful, even for someone as intelligent and seemingly carefree as Remy is. “Would you like me to get you something?”

She seems a little on edge and Yaz smiles at her, eager to put her at ease. She wonders if anyone else has been invited up to this office and shoves the thought aside. She doesn't know Remy all that well, despite Remy's previous comments to the contrary, but she suspects (and hopes) that she is the first person to be invited up here like this.

“I’m all good, I swear.”

Remy sighs, relieved that her oversight hasn’t offended her guest.

“Do you mind if I have a nip?”

Yaz is almost certain she’d never deny this woman anything.

“Of course not.”

Remy takes a swig and almost instantly her eyes tear up and she coughs, wheezily.

“Not a whiskey drinker?” Yaz laughs, and Remy joins in. It's nice that she's human, and that she can laugh at herself. It helps dispel some of the tension in the room as they navigate the situation they’ve put themselves in. 

“Not at all. My predecessor left it in case of emergencies. He was a grumpy Scotsman, which explains the choice of spirit.”

“Emergencies? Such as?” Yaz tilts her head, curious. 

“I’m pretty certain he wasn’t thinking of this, but as of this moment? Having a beautiful woman in my office, alone, with the distinct possibility that I’m going to mess this up.”

Yaz is taken aback by her honesty. It’s not like they’ve really had a proper chance to talk all evening and the memories of their night together no doubt linger in Remy’s mind, too. That extra pressure. Yaz realises that Remy might have wanted to make an impression, just as she’d wanted to make an impression with her dress, and her fears of inadequacy fall by the wayside. They may move in different circles but, despite appearances, Remy is apparently just as nervous as she is. 

The thought gives Yaz the confidence boost she needs to cross the room and swipe her thumb over Remy’s bottom lip, just as she had in the gallery downstairs. This time, the gesture feels a lot more loaded.

“You had a little whiskey there,” she explains, but it is a lie and they both know it.

“Sorry for all the pomp and circumstance,” Remy breathes, and their faces are so close again that Yaz can faintly smell the alcohol on her breath. 

“That's ok. You can make it up to me. Cut through all of that.”

This time, Remy kisses her; Yaz readily lets her take the lead, relaxing into it. Once she does, it’s game over for Yasmin Khan. It becomes readily apparent that both of them have been on their best behaviour all evening because things ramp up almost immediately. Yaz tries and fails to keep her hands to herself but when Remy runs a hand through her hair, she can’t help it; she skims them up Remy’s sides, feeling the coarse material of her waistcoat at last. Remy sighs when Yaz reaches her breasts and moves her own hand lower, blatantly groping Yaz’s arse through her dress. _Finally._

What they’re doing seems at odds with the way they're dressed but at the end of the day, clothes - no matter how fancy - are just another layer to remove and right now they're getting in the way. The fact that the clothes they're wearing are so extravagant only serves to make the way Remy's groping her feel even more illicit. It’s as if people who dress like this don’t act in such an uncivilised manner, and yet here they are, proving everyone wrong.

They’re so close to the window that Yaz is certain that should anybody on the balcony look up, they’d be in for a show. The thought doesn’t deter her at all; if anything, it just makes her even more anxious to feel Remy’s hands on her. 

_That’s new_ , she thinks. She’ll have to come back to it later, though, because blood is being diverted from her brain and straight between her legs.

Remy takes her by surprise, turning her so that Yaz faces outwards, facing the river. It’s almost as if Remy has read her mind but then Yaz feels her mind empty as a strong hand squeezes her breast through her dress, soft lips attach to her neck, and a solid body presses up against her back, almost pinning her in place, like a piece of art to be exhibited to the world. 

Yaz wishes she could reach behind her properly but her attempts to find the fly of Remy’s trousers are futile and she abandons them when Remy’s nose brushes up against the ticklish skin behind her ear. 

“Wait, wait,” Remy mumbles, reluctantly pulling her mouth away. Yaz hears her step away and then the telltale sound of a lock being turned. 

“Just in case,” Remy explains, which doesn’t really explain much of anything, although Yaz knows precisely what she's driving at. She doesn't want anyone walking in on them. 

But when Remy doesn’t come back, Yaz eventually turns to see her with a perplexed look on her face and she frowns when Remy unlocks the door again only moments later.

“Wait, what? Remy,” Yaz groans, dragging out her name. She can hear disappointment bleeding into her tone. She’d been so ready for Remy to take her that she can't think straight, and she thought they'd finally made some progress.

"Sorry, Yaz. Sorry. It's just…seeing you like that?" Remy gestures at her and Yaz looks down at herself in confusion. Thankfully her dress is still largely in place, but she’s not sure what Remy’s getting at.

"You look like a dream. I want to do things right," Remy clarifies. "I want this night to be just as memorable as the first one. The last time was kinda frantic, you know? I think I want to take you home instead. Is that ok?"

And really, what can Yaz say to that? 

"So long as I get to see you out of that suit, I don't care," she says bluntly, cursing her clumsy choice of words when Remy's had been so nice.

Something about Remy always leaves her a little tongue-tied. But she's relieved, if a little surprised; the change of heart goes some way to explaining the skittishness and restless energy that's been pursuing Remy all evening. It strikes her that Remy might be trying to sweep her off her feet. She's looking and acting like the perfect gentleman, and when she hooks her jacket over her finger and throws it over her shoulder, the image is complete. Yaz feels like she could melt into a puddle on the floor and nobody would notice a difference.

"Tube?" she says. She can manage one word at least, the mixture of nerves and excitement depriving her of something more eloquent.

"Sod that," Remy shakes her head, her accent emphasising the sentiment. "Uber. The Tube is too slow at this time of night.”

Yaz is relieved by the decision when it brings them to Remy’s flat in less than 20 minutes. She rarely gets transport overground so it’s something of a treat to see the landmarks pass them by, and they are a helpful distraction from the restless ball of energy that is the woman sitting next to her. They pass by Farringdon and Clerkenwell as Remy chatters away, pointing out her favourite places to visit and some of the buildings they pass by. She seems to know a lot about everything but she’s not telling Yaz these things to show off: she is genuinely interested in the world around her. Yaz recognises a few landmarks, especially when they near the hotel at St Pancras, the one that looks like a chateau. She knows Remy could tell her all about it but she’s reluctant to interrupt her narrative and instead she hangs on every word, thoroughly entertained.

It’s only when the car pulls up outside a townhouse close to Camden station that Remy finally stops talking. 

“Here we are,” she grins, opening her door and extending her hand back inside to guide Yaz out. 

The street is quiet, despite its proximity to the station, and wide. It’s a far nicer neighbourhood than Yaz’s own. Expensive cars line the street but once Yaz is admitted into Remy’s flat, she realises that Remy’s lifestyle is probably a little at odds with her surroundings. She copies Remy and kicks off her shoes by the door, padding barefoot into the space.

There are high ceilings and sash windows that make it seem far bigger on the inside; in fact it’s probably twice the size of Yaz’s entire flat. It’s also full of books squeezed into several bookshelves that line one wall, some comfy looking armchairs, and a desk that’s covered in paperwork. It’s a studio in more ways than one: Remy’s bed is on a raised dais against the far wall and in the opposite corner is a space where Remy clearly works on her art; there’s an easel and some paints, and as Yaz looks around she sees several colourful canvases hung on the walls. 

Yaz immediately feels at home. 

Remy throws her keys onto the kitchen island with a clatter and rummages in the cupboards for some glasses. 

“Drink?”

“Water, please.”

Remy runs the tap as Yaz wanders around the space. 

“Did you paint these?” she asks, pointing to one of the canvases. It’s the most eye-catching piece in the room - and it defies description. It almost looks like a star or a galaxy of some kind, exploding outwards in chaotic streaks of oils. 

“Ah, yeah,” Remy murmurs, and it’s the first time Yaz has seen her look bashful. Just like Remy’s office, Yaz wonders how many people have actually been inside this home. Remy doesn’t seem that used to showing certain facets of herself and Yaz makes a mental note not to push. Instead, she crosses over to where she’s leaning against the kitchen counter, two glasses beside her. Yaz notes that one of them is hers - it’s full of water - but the other contains wine. Remy picks it up and takes a sip as she watches Yaz approach.

“It’s stunning. You’re stunning,” Yaz sighs happily, bracing herself on the counter and pinning Remy in place in one smooth move.

“I- well-” 

Yaz likes depriving Remy of words, and she knows just how to carry on doing that. Remy might know a lot about things and talk about any number of them, but Yaz knows for a fact that she can make her feel good. She’s done it before, and she can do it again. 

“And I don’t mean just physically speaking,” Yaz continues. It’s true: she likes Remy’s mind just as much as her body, but she’s desperate to touch her and she keeps her eyes fixed on Remy’s as she slides a hand between them to unbutton her trousers. Remy takes a gulp of wine and returns the glass to the counter with a click, gripping onto the countertop instead.

“Although that is a bonus,” Yaz grins, unzipping her fly. The flat is so quiet that the sound is almost obscene and Yaz can feel the tips of her ears growing warm under Remy’s silent scrutiny. But her uneven breathing is a giveaway and Yaz thrives on it, letting it fuel her explorations under the material. 

Yaz can’t see what underwear Remy is wearing but she guesses they’re boxers as she teases along the elastic, fingers drifting in a pattern that’s deliberately aimless. When she looks down to see her hand tenting the material she feels her own underwear become even more damp. There’s something about the implication of what she’s doing that’s as arousing as seeing it explicitly.

“Yaz,” Remy pants, “please.”

Yaz relents and moves her fingers higher, pressing down where the material meets and biting her lip as Remy’s head falls back with a sigh. But it’s not long before Yaz wants more and she withdraws her hand just long enough to tug Remy’s trousers down to her ankles. 

Yaz has never done this before but when she gazes up at Remy from her spot on the floor and eyes Remy’s white-knuckle grip, she does not regret her decision. Remy makes her feel adventurous, it turns out; never before had she taken a stranger home and until now, she’s never eaten someone out in their kitchen. She carefully eases Remy’s boxers down, never taking her eyes off her face. The floor is solid and Yaz is glad that her dress can protect her knees a little but her discomfort is instantly forgotten when she returns to the juncture of Remy’s thighs, this time with her tongue. 

“Shit," Remy swears, and Yaz feels her knees flex beside her head as she gets to work. She hadn’t done this the last time and she’s thought about it more often than she’d care to admit. She isn’t disappointed; she tastes Remy for the first time and doesn’t let up, mouthing at her in a way that’s deliberately slow and designed not to bring her off just yet. 

“Yaz, please,” Remy repeats, even more desperately, but Yaz doesn’t know what she wants. She knows Remy is good with her words and she’s thrilled to continue depriving her of them. She can hazard a guess that her teasing is driving Remy to distraction but she doesn’t pull her mouth away to ask. After a beat, Remy’s hand comes to rest on her head, tangling in her hair as her hips rock against Yaz’s mouth. Yaz reaches up and clasps onto her arse for balance, the hem of Remy’s shirt tickling her knuckles. 

The reminder that Remy is still half-dressed gives Yaz pause and she pulls away, breathing hard. She shifts on her knees and realises they’ve gone numb.

“Stand up,” Remy suggests, sensing her discomfort. “I’ve got a much more comfortable place to continue this.”

Yaz tries not to laugh when Remy nearly trips over her trousers, and she doesn’t quite catch what Remy mutters as she impatiently kicks the material off, leaving her dressed in her shirt, waistcoat, and stripey socks. By comparison, their first time seems like it went a lot more smoothly, even though it had been entirely unexpected. The second time is almost a catalogue of near-misses, but at least Yaz is no longer nervous. It feels fun, and nice, and easy.

“That's not quite the effect I was going for,” Remy grins when she sees Yaz watching her. 

“Want me to show you how it's done?” Yaz suggests. She feels drunk on lust and endorphins and the taste of Remy in her mouth.

Remy nods dumbly and Yaz wonders what she’s just let herself in for. 

“Unzip me?”

Remy does the honours and Yaz nudges her in the direction of the bed as she feels the dress loosen. 

“Now, watch.”

She has no idea where this power trip has come from but she wants to ride it for as long as it will last because she suspects it’s finite. The first time they did this was so unexpected that she doesn’t recall how it played out, other than that Remy made the first move and had called the shots. If there’s a dynamic of any kind, she suspects she’ll start to get more of a feel for it now. She wants to see how far she can push things.

This time, Remy does as she’s told: she sits on the edge of the bed and watches with wide eyes as Yaz slips one shoulder of her dress off, then the other. 

Yaz quells her nerves by watching Remy’s face as she guides the material down her body, leaving her in her new lacy underwear. She knows she should probably do something more sensible with her dress, now a crumpled pile on the floor, but she can’t quite bring herself to care when she sees Remy’s throat bob as she swallows hard, her hands restless in her lap. Any residual chill she felt from the November air is gone when she feels Remy’s eyes on her.

“Sit on those hands for me,” Yaz murmurs, surprised when Remy does just that within milliseconds, tucking her fingers underneath her bare thighs. She’s like an eager puppy but Yaz knows that Remy is just biding her time. 

In the meantime, assured that Remy is going to look but not touch, Yaz unbuttons her waistcoat, and then her shirt, slowly sliding the buttons through their holes. She measures every breath Remy takes, aware that her body is entirely on show with each passing second. The intense scrutiny she’s just subjected herself to is worth it when she sees how flushed Remy’s cheeks are, and when she glances at her chest she can see that her nipples are already hard through the lace of her bra. 

When Yaz moves to slide the shirt from her shoulders she brushes against one of them deliberately, just to see how Remy will react. 

“Whoops,” she murmurs and Remy whimpers at the contact. Yaz knows she’s pushing her luck but at least the repercussions will be worthwhile. 

“Yaz, you’re killing me here,” Remy breathes, and Yaz can see that keeping her hands still is taking its toll.

She takes pity on Remy then, and unhooks her bra.

“Lift your arms out,” she suggests, and Remy obliges without a word. The offending item falls to the mattress without a second glance and Yaz openly marvels at Remy’s breasts. They’re smaller than she remembers, and perfect, and she chides herself for not remembering them better. They fit in her palms and she strokes her thumbs over her nipples, triggering a wave of goosebumps across creamy skin that Yaz wants to taste every inch of. 

But she really has been pushing her luck and Remy takes the opportunity to redress the balance, literally. Once Yaz’s hands are occupied she reaches up and gently pulls Yaz towards her, disturbing her equilibrium just enough to guide her onto her lap. She divests Yaz of her bra with a flick of her wrist, sending it sailing to the floor before Yaz even realises what’s going on. She moves quickly and tugs Yaz backwards so that they land towards the middle of the bed. It’s a show of strength but it’s so surprising that Yaz shrieks when they land with a soft whump, bracing herself against the mattress as she sits astride Remy’s stomach.

“That cost me north of fifty quid,” she pouts, mourning the loss of her bra. 

“And as good as you look in it, I prefer it on my floor,” Remy raises an eyebrow, as if she’s challenging Yaz to disagree. 

There’s something different in her eyes, a different kind of fire to anything Yaz has seen before. It’s the kind of look that suggests Yaz has had her fun, but that it’s come to an end. Then Remy’s eyes are hidden from sight as she shifts downwards, lavishing kisses on Yaz’s breasts. The soft touch makes Yaz’s arms tremble and she wishes she’d kept up with her gym membership because Remy is clearly on a roll and Yaz needs to support her own weight during the onslaught of her mouth. 

A cool palm spans her stomach and Yaz feels the skin tingle. It moves down, heading between her legs as teeth graze her nipple, sending fresh heat rushing between her legs. When confident fingers press into the soaked material, Yaz feels her arms tremble again. Remy doesn’t seem to notice but she’s preoccupied, her eyes closed as she sucks a nipple into her mouth and strokes firmly between Yaz’s legs. 

“Oh god.” Yaz squeezes her eyes shut. She doesn’t want to come too quickly again but she’s been lowkey turned on all evening and Remy is very good at getting her off. 

She’s done for when Remy moves south again, until her feet are braced on the floor and her mouth is right by Yaz’s underwear. Yaz is glad she wore a thong because there’s no way she can trust her legs to bear her weight and Remy seems to understand that; rather than ask Yaz to move she improvises, pulling the fabric to one side and thrusting her tongue inside of her. 

“Fuck,” Yaz shouts, and she’s so loud she’s almost certain the sound echoes around the room. Remy is straight to business and she wonders if this is her form of revenge for all of the teasing Yaz has done until this point; not that she’s complaining, but Remy is barely giving her a chance to breathe before she’s thrusting inside, and then her fingers replace her tongue and a hot mouth surrounds her clit and Yaz is lost to it. Her sense of balance is just about maintained but otherwise it feels like she’s sliding off an edge and she shuts her eyes to stop the room spinning. 

She glances down just briefly, breathing hard, to see Remy mouthing at her as she fucks her and that does it. Her eyes slam shut as she comes on Remy’s mouth, her hips grinding of their own accord. Distantly, she wonders how Remy is even breathing, but when one of Remy’s hands pulls her hips down in encouragement, she stops worrying. 

Yaz takes care not to knee Remy in the face as she finally rolls off her, collapsing to the mattress with a huff. 

“Oh my god,” she groans. 

Remy joins her moments later, and before she even opens her mouth, Yaz knows she’ll be cocky.

“Think that was even quicker than last time.”

“Just means you’ll have to do it again,” Yaz retorts, giggling when Remy nods enthusiastically at the proposition. “But not just yet. I’ve not had my go.”

“You have, in the kitchen!” Remy protests, but Yaz is determined. She needs more. 

“I wasn’t quite finished with you, if you’ll recall.” 

Yaz hopes they’ll do this again. Surely it can’t be a one-night stand if they do it more than once? But she doesn’t want to risk it. She has unfinished business that she needs to attend to before this night is through.

“That sounds ominous.” Remy kisses her and Yaz tastes herself on her lips. She surges up, keen to flip Remy onto her back, but they end up practically wrestling for control. Yaz groans in frustration. 

“It will be if you don’t let me get on with it,” Yaz grumbles. She plots her next move. Remy is stronger than her, she thinks, and quicker, but is she ticklish? Yaz gets her answer when Remy crumples at the feel of fingertips tracing innocently along her lower back.

“Gotcha,” Yaz grins, refusing to relent until Remy asks for a reprieve.

“Not fair,” she protests, catching her breath even as Yaz pins her hips to the bed with her hands and picks up where she left off. “Tickling is just playing-”

Yaz licks into her and Remy loses her train of thought entirely, hands dramatically flailing for the sheets beside her. Her clit bumps against Yaz’s nose and Yaz takes it into her mouth, teasing at her entrance with her finger. 

“You really don’t play fair,” Remy mutters again, but Yaz knows it’s not really a complaint because it’s the only sensible noise she hears from Remy after that; the rest are sounds of sheer pleasure, of Remy losing her inhibitions as Yaz finally slips inside. She’s hot and tight and Yaz moans at the feel and the smell and the taste of her. She doesn’t want this to end. 

But eventually the sounds become muffled as strong thighs clamp over Yaz’s ears and she knows it’s only a matter of time. It happens quicker than she expects; the pressure around her head increases exponentially and Yaz can pinpoint the moment it happens. She looks up to watch Remy as she comes, laps up her arousal as best she can and memorises the way it explodes on her tongue. Suddenly, the pressure around her head loosens and her hearing is restored so that she can hear Remy breathing hard. 

“Now _that’s_ fair,” Yaz comments smugly, as Remy regards her drowsily. 

“Alright. I take it back. I’m a big believer in fairness. Equal rights. All that jazz.” Remy raises her hand and waves it lazily to emphasise her point, but it falls back to the mattress seconds later. She seems thoroughly wiped out and it’s not surprising, really; the evening has been long and, for Remy especially, eventful. 

“You should sleep,” she suggests, pulling the duvet around them. Now that they’ve stopped moving so much, it’s apparent that those high ceilings and sash windows don’t trap the heat all that well. 

“Don’t need sleep,” Remy drawls, but her eyelids are drooping and within minutes of curling into Yaz’s side, she’s out for the count.

In the end, Yaz doesn't get a wink of sleep. Remy’s head is on her shoulder and she breathes softly as she dozes; there's no way Yaz would miss a second of it so instead, she runs her hand through Remy's hair. She’s afraid to move in case she wakes her up, but true to her word Remy rouses only an hour or so later. In that time, Yaz has thought of nothing much at all other than what has just transpired. It doesn’t feel real, much like their first night together, and she chalks that up to the fact that her days have actually blurred into one. 

In the interim, the birds have started singing and there is condensation on the windows. It's cold out, Yaz can tell already, but hopefully it’s one of those wonderful November days where the sun shines and the air is crisp. The city is still quiet but there is a whole Sunday ahead of them and Yaz wonders if they'll get to spend it together. She hopes so, but she doesn’t want to assume. She’s still thinking of how to bring it up when Remy stretches against her like a cat and Yaz readily abandons her daydreams for reality.

"Hey, you," Yaz murmurs, and she's so tired but happy that she has no frame of reference for how she’s feeling. It’s unique and wonderful and all thanks to the woman in her arms. 

"Hey," Remy smiles at her, half awake and dopey. She yawns and Yaz finally shifts, feeling sensation return to her numb arm in a flurry of pins and needles. 

"You sure you don't need a little more?"

Remy shakes her head and Yaz laughs at her bed head. 

"What?"

"You look like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards."

"This is artist chic, I'll have you know," Remy replies, and she yawns again, which makes Yaz yawn, too. 

"Did you sleep?" Remy asks, and a frown line emerges between her eyebrows as she regards Yaz's face. Yaz would put money on the fact she does actually look like she’s been awake all night.

"A little," Yaz lies. "But I could murder a coffee."

Remy perks up at that. 

"Want to go to the zoo?"

"What?" Yaz laughs. 

"It's right around the corner and there's a coffee shop on the way."

The day finally takes shape and becomes tangible and Yaz is so happy at the idea of spending more time with Remy - and that Remy wants to spend more time with her - that she agrees instantly. While Remy had slept she’d entertained scenarios of how this day would go, but in none of them had plans come together that easily and she’d catastrophised, envisioning a lonely Tube ride home in a crumpled dress from the night before. But Remy makes things much, much better.

Yaz doesn’t regret her decision for a second, even when she ends up walking around Regent’s Park in some of Remy’s oversized, paint-splattered dungarees and her rainbow scarf. Her options had been a little limited - Remy apparently lived in suits or at least trousers with funky braces - but Yaz thanks her past self for at least packing some spare underwear. 

Remy leads her around the park to the edge of the zoo and they stand outside of the camel enclosure for a moment, outsiders looking in. The camels pay them no mind, their breaths clouding in the frosty air as they watch them with disdain. The rest of the animals are hidden inside, tucked out of view. 

“I've never been to the zoo,” Yaz admits. 

“Really?”

“Yeah. There are loads of things I haven't done, actually.”

_Things I'd like to do. With you._

Remy regards her for a split second. 

“Would you like to?”

Yaz ponders the question, which is vague enough that she isn’t quite sure how to answer it, especially since Remy’s choice of words has so closely mirrored her own thoughts. Is Remy asking if she wants to do those things with her, or is that just wishful thinking?

“I'm not sure I like zoos.” 

It’s true; Yaz is not that keen on the idea of animals trapped in cages. They remind her of how she feels about her own life, sometimes.

Remy laughs. 

“Ok, talk about mixed messages!”

Yaz realises she’s not really thinking straight. After all, Remy had suggested they visit the zoo and she’d readily agreed. In reality, all she’d wanted was to spend more time with Remy, no matter what they actually ended up doing. Her mind feels like cotton wool and she definitely needs more sleep, but she’s also not ready for their time together to end.

“Sorry! Sorry,” she grins tiredly, knowing that Remy isn’t remotely offended by her change of heart. “I would like to do something else though. With you. If you would like? I mean...in addition to today.”

Yaz wonders if she’s being greedy by asking for so much already, but she doesn’t care. She’s never been selfish in her life, but now’s the time to try. 

_Please say yes._

Remy tilts her head, pursing her lips in an expression that Yaz has come to recognise as not remotely serious. She’s proven right when Remy’s lips stretch into a grin only seconds later.

“I'll take you on an adventure, then. All you need to do is name a time and place and I'll be there.”

Yaz somehow knows for a fact that when Remy mentions adventure, she’ll be true to her word.

She can't wait to see what she has in store.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, you can find me on Twitter @_mag_lex.
> 
> My fics are now on WordPress at maglexfic.wordpress.com. You should be able to subscribe there to all my new ones, since I won't be posting any new fics to Ao3 for the foreseeable future :)


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